The Art of Torture and Recovery
by Lightningwolf325
Summary: Year 5. Harry is overwhelmed-between evil detention, Voldemort, and sneering classmates, he can hardly contain his frustration. The dark magic in the quill is affecting him badly, and soon he may snap. Can McGonagall, Ron, and Hermione help him in time?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**: Well…I'm not forty-five, I don't have blond hair, I'm not the creator of one of the best series of all times…yet…but I do have glasses! No? Fine…I don't own Harry Potter.

**Stuff**: So, it's another story. No, LtL will not be abandoned, the Dursleys are just being difficult. This one popped into my head because there are so many stories where Snape finds out about Umbridge's detentions and helps Harry. But what about McGonagall? She's his Head of House. So here's a story where _she_ finds out about it, and there are more extreme repercussions for Harry due to the quill. I mean, he was sleep deprived, the quill was dark magic, he probably wasn't eating enough as it was…so yeah. And everyone was calling him a liar and insane, plus the stress was high what with OWLs and everything…

**The Art of Torture and Recovery**

_I must not tell lies_

As he wrote, the words were carved into the back of his hand as though an invisible person were taking an invisible razor blade to the previously flawless flesh, intent upon torturing the fifteen-year-old until he cracked. Essentially, that _was_ what was happening. His torturer was sitting, seemingly innocent at a desk in front of him, shuffling her papers. He hated everything about her, from the stupid black bow on the top of her mousy brown hair down to the tips of her revoltingly pink shoes. She looked up for a moment, beady eyes meeting his as she smiled a toothy smile as sweet as honey laced with basilisk venom, and just as potent as well. He stared defiantly back for a moment before dropping his gaze back down to the blood-stained parchment on his desk.

_I must not tell lies_

He bit his tongue in order to keep himself from crying out when the quill's magic lashed at a tendon. He refused to give his torturer satisfaction in the knowledge of his pain. At first it had been difficult; the quill was quite unlike slapping hands or pounding fists. It was sharper—somewhat like a knife, but different, leaving a heavy feeling wherever it ripped across his flesh. It was dark magic, that much he knew—he wasn't the top Defense student in his year for nothing—but there was nothing he could do but sit and bear it. He was well aware that his right hand could be left crippled for the rest of his life—however long that was—but he just couldn't bring himself to care.

_I must not tell lies_

Again he suppressed a moan of pain. Of course, it was only when the quill's magic managed to work itself this deep that it hurt anymore—any other pain had long since faded. He was left numb until he had written enough, until he had cut deep enough—the unreality was more of a torture than the pain, to him. The pain let him know he was there, alive and fighting, living a small rebellion as he silently denied everything the ministry now seemed to stand for as he inflicted more and more damage on his hand.

_I must not tell lies_

Though using the quill seemed only to further his apathetic state, he did not go looking for pain. Indeed, the razors in the boys' shower looked very appealing on many days, but he resisted the urge. He was very unwilling to allow his torturer's preferred punishment to take any more of his blood.

The sickening sound of his torturer's faux cough broke through the silence. He gritted his teeth and looked up. A small smirk appeared on her face at the sight of his subtle insolence. She would have him for another night, another night of torture. She looked at him pointedly when he didn't rise. He sighed and stood up, forcing himself not to sway on his feet. He slowly made his way to her desk, presenting his hand as was now the routine. She smiled a gleeful, venomous smile as she felt the barely suppressed tremors coursing through his body. A sadistic, pleasure-filled glint appeared in her eyes as she pressed on the swollen purple flesh of his hand, just over the cuts. Yet her twisted feelings were still rather bitter-sweet—he still hadn't truly broken. But he would come again, just as he had before, and there was nothing he could do to escape her wrath.

When she dismissed him he left as quickly as he could without allowing his cold mask to slip, getting as far away as possible on his shaking legs. He slipped into a little-known passageway and sunk down to the ground. The stone made it a nice, cool alcove for him to recover enough from his torture sessions to return to the normal world—the world where teens weren't punished in such brutal manners, where the most students had to worry about was homework and dating. But he would never belong in the normal world. They didn't believe in him, and he couldn't relate to them.

Because, honestly, who in their right mind would call Harry Potter "normal"?

**!**

**A/N**: So, this is just the first chapter, kind of to set the scene. A bit of a prologue, if you will. Review! (No flames)


	2. Nightmares and Flashbacks

**Disclaimer**: I don't own. Never have, probably never will.

**Stuff**: Hmm…alright then, thanks for the reviews and adds to alerts/faves. I'm really sorry about the long wait. Oh yeah, also, this won't be a dark!Harry story, no matter what it may look like in this chapter. He's just dealing with too much, and he has a connection to Voldemort as well.

I'm sorry I took so long. Just had some life stuff. And if this sucks, I'm sorry, I just wrote half of it right now and I'm tired.

**Review**: Please? No flames.

**The Art of Torture and Recovery**

Ron and Hermione were waiting for him when he got back to the common room. As per usual, Hermione had a bowl of strained murtlap tentacles waiting for him. None of them spoke as he allowed his hand to sink into the cool substance, sighing in relief as the pain took a temporary leave of absence. Harry stared determinedly at the fire, eyes tracing the jumping flames, knowing that his two best friends were gazing at him pityingly. He didn't want pity—he got enough of that for being an orphan. Of course, it wasn't something he received very much anymore; that was probably the only favor the thrice-accursed ministry had done him in publishing those stories.

"Harry," Hermione began cautiously. His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed, immediately becoming suspicious at her tone. Seeing his reaction, she quickly hurried on.

"Harry, we were thinking…" at the sight of his still-tensing posture, she continued. "Maybe you should tell someone." She sat with baited breath, waiting for his reaction. He simply stared harder into the fire, trying desperately to keep the anger in his chest from leaping up like the flames licking the wood. Once he had himself under control, he slowly replied.

"And why would that be?" he asked coldly. Hermione barely contained a wince at the hard edge in his voice, but dutifully plowed on.

"Harry, you're a wreck! And don't deny it," she said sharply at his look. "You haven't slept properly in a long time, and you only ever pick at your meals nowadays. Not to mention what you go through nearly every day with that-that-that _hag_ they call a teacher!" her voice had risen and an idle part of Harry's brain found itself grateful that the people in the dorms couldn't hear what was happening in the common room. However, he also found himself thoroughly irritated that she was making such a big deal out of his life. He didn't understand why she was so..._nagging_ all the time. His Avada Kedavra green eyes drilled into her and a cold, sadistic pleasure jumped up in his chest as a flicker of fear sparked in her own chocolaty orbs.

Pain seared across his forehead and his left hand jumped to it immediately. Ron and Hermione looked at him in concern and he pushed down a wave of annoyance. Harder to lose was the guilt that threatened to engulf him—he shouldn't have had that kind of reaction, no matter how irritated he was. His thoughts flickered to a pair of cruel, scarlet, snake-like eyes, dancing with cold amusement while he writhed in pain on the grassy graveyard floor…

"Harry? Harry, are you alright?" came Ron's concerned voice. He realized that he was shaking slightly, his chest heaving and his heart beating erratically. His defenses slammed down immediately, an emotionless mask sliding almost flawlessly onto his face. It was a mask that was well-worn, its figurative grooves now laying perfectly over his warring emotions, covering them from all, even himself. But an almost panicky feeling still grew in his chest, making him feel constricted and restricted, as though an invisible force was pressing down on him. Abruptly, he stood up.

"I'm going to bed," he said, his tone clipped and cold. Before either of them could stop him he was gone, leaving the murtlap essence on the table.

He cleaned off his aching hand quickly, not wanting to look at the swollen purple mess for longer than he had to. Collapsing onto the bed fully clothed with the curtains drawn around him, he slipped away, his exhaustion finally claiming him.

But only for a moment…

_It was a starless night. Clouds rolled across the sky. An air of unease crept through the surrounding area. He felt as though he should know where he was—it was oddly familiar._

"_Wands out, d'you reckon?"_

_As was that voice. With a jolt of horror, Harry realized where he was._

_The graveyard. Again._

_His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness now that he knew what was happening. They always did. And, as always, when he caught sight of Cedric and his fourteen-year-old self, he couldn't tear his eyes away._

"_Kill the spare."_

'No, look away,'_ he thought desperately to himself, but he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried._

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

"No!" Harry exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. He panted, cold sweat making his shirt stick to his anorexic body. The snores of his roommates filled the dorm, though it seemed that Ron's were missing. Quite obviously as well, as he was generally the loudest besides Neville. He carefully shifted in his bed and saw his best friend sitting upright on his own bed, staring out the window at the starry sky. Harry breathed a short sigh of relief. It seemed that his silencing charms from the night before had held long enough to protect him tonight.

He sighed again, an angst-ridden sigh filled with pain as the image of Cedric disappearing in a flash of green light floated eerily across his vision. Picking up his wand and recasting the silencing charms, he pulled out some homework and began to write. He worked slowly and meticulously, careful that his usually sloppy left handed writing was legible.

And as usual, when the morning came, the images of Cedric Diggory had been pushed to the back of his mind, buried in the swimming thoughts of potions and spells.

Yet he still hadn't slept.


	3. Hearing and Hallucinating

**Disclaimer**: Y'know, you'd think that this would have changed since the last time I updated, but no; I still do not own Harry Potter.

**Stuff**: Sorry I haven't updated in so long! I've had a lot going on. But here's the next chapter! Sorry about all of the typos in the last chapter, it was late and I was tired but I wanted to update…I went back and fixed them but if you find more please tell me. Please review! No flames though. Concrit welcome!

**Note**: I'm taking artistic license with the schedule—I can only remember the classes for Mondays (because that's all they told us, I think). I'm figuring that they had classes more than once per week, not always necessarily on the same schedule for all days. So they could have Potions, History of Magic, Divination, and Defense against the Dark Arts on Mondays and then have Potions and completely different classes on, say, Thursdays or something.

**The Art of Torture and Recovery**

Harry glanced at the clock. It was still rather early, but he figured he should get ready before the others got up. He shoved his school things into his bag with undue aggression, grabbed his toiletries with the same forcefulness, and went into the bathroom. He turned on the water to get it to precisely the right temperature—as hot as he could possibly stand. Clumsily he took his wand in his left hand and cast a weak _impervius_ charm on his swollen right hand. Stripping, he stepped into the shower, wincing only slightly as the scalding water pounded down on him. He could have stayed there for hours had his shaky charm not finally collapsed, leaving his abused hand exposed to the scorching intensity of the water. Face hard with pain, Harry stumbled out, groping blindly for his towel, then going through the same dilemma as he tried to find his glasses.

Finally he stood, towel around waist, in front of a mirror. He sneered as he took in the sight of his emaciated form—he could clearly make out every rib and, when he turned around, his shoulder blades jutted out of his back along with his spine. Shaking his head, he turned away and pulled on his pants, trousers, and shirt. It was still painfully obvious how underweight he was, but fortunately the heavy school robes covered that up quite nicely. Looking once more at his reflection he saw that he had dark circles surrounding his eyes like bruises, standing out against his ghostly pale skin. His cheeks were hollow. Wand held painfully in his right hand he brought it up to his face and cast a glamour. He wasn't overly good at them, but it hid the worse of his starved, sleep-deprived state. Even Ron and Hermione didn't know how bad he truly looked—the glamour generally wore off sometime during the night and he always showered alone, early in the morning before any of his dorm mates woke up. He would have liked to apply one to his scar, but no matter what he did it wouldn't go away. Switching his wand to his left hand once more, he cast another, weaker glamour on his hand. His friends knew about that one, though neither commented. It was something that he had begun doing when the swelling and discolouration had become more noticeable—though his spellwork was still weak with his left hand he never asked Hermione to help, realizing that she'd probably think that it was good if someone noticed.

He finished pulling on his robes and straightened his tie. Checking his watch he saw that the others would probably be waking up soon, so he returned to the dorm and grabbed his bag, intending to leave before Ron—or worse, _Hermione_—got up and forced him to eat. However, luck seemed to not be on his side that morning. When he reached the common room, Hermione was there, in her normal seat, dressed and ready for the day. She smiled when she saw him approaching.

"Good morning," she greeted in a forced casual voice, obviously not forgetting his abrupt departure the night before and the events leading up to it. "I woke up early so I figured that I'd just get up. Shall we wait for Ron?" Harry made a noncommittal noise, collapsing into his chair nonetheless. Hermione looked at him amicabley, though her smile faltered slightly at his cold expression.

One awkward hour and many failed attempts at one-sided conversation later, they were joined by a still-yawning Ron. He woke up slightly at the promise of food on their way down to the Great Hall. Of course, he did manage to do what Hermione had not and drew an, albeit unenthusiastic, Harry into a conversation about Quidditch.

Ignoring the nasty glares and mutterings the trio made it to the Gryffindor table. Chattering about some obscure assignment for Arithmancy, Hermione piled food onto Harry's plate. His stomach churned at the mere thought of eating anything, much less all of what she put in front of him. He sat there quietly, hoping that somehow she would forget about him in the hustle and bustle of breakfast, but was sadly disappointed.

"Harry, you really need to eat something," Hermione said for the umpteenth time. "Here, just a tiny bite of bacon, you'll realize how hungry you are."

"No, Hermione, really, I—" he tried.

"Come _on_," she wheedled. He sighed, not wanting to fight a losing battle. He grabbed the bacon she was waving in front of his face and bit out of it, trying desperately to keep himself from gagging as the greasy meat touched his tongue.

He was saved by the bell, signaling that it was time for them to get to their first class of the day, Potions. It seemed that everyone hated him this year. Fighting back the urge to vomit, he made his way to class with Ron and Hermione.

In his usual seat in the back of the dungeon classroom, Harry made sure not to make eye contact with Snape. He didn't want to give the man any reason to pick on him today, not when he was so exhausted and emotionally weak. He did his work on autopilot, cutting and stirring and simmering as the instructions said but never really joined with reality. Near the end of the lesson he had the audacity to think that perhaps, just maybe he would actually get a decent grade this class. He would have, had Draco Malfoy not seen fit to intervene.

The explosion that resulted from whatever Malfoy had thrown in his cauldron certainly wasn't the worst he had experienced, nor was it the most damaging. However, it still did what it had undoubtedly been intended to do; get Harry into infinite amounts of trouble with no hope of a passing grade.

"Potter!" Snape roared. Harry flinched imperceptibly.

"Please, sir, it wasn't Harry's fault—" Hermione defended.

"Yeah, Malfoy—" Ron added.

"That's enough, Weasley, Granger. There is no need to go blaming Mr. Malfoy for Potter's _incompetence_," he said silkily. "Ten points will be taken from the two of you, and twenty from Potter for is inability to read the instructions. Potter, an essay on exactly _where_ you went wrong in your potion shall be due next class. Now out!"

Fuming, Harry snatched up his things and stormed out of the classroom. Ron and Hermione shared a worried glance and followed him, jogging to keep up.

"C'mon mate, forty points, that's not the worst we've gotten from Snape," Ron said in what he clearly meant to be an encouraging tone. Harry snorted.

"Well if you don't think it's so bloody bad then why don't you tell me how to write an essay when I didn't do anything wrong," he snapped, continuing his brisk pace.

Harry was still refusing to speak to either of them when they reached Transfiguration. He pointedly ignored them as they took their usual seats. The whole lesson passed in a tense silence for the trio, and all were so caught up in their own thoughts that none of them noticed the thoughtful, concerned green gaze that followed them for most of the period.

"Ms. Granger, could you remain behind for a moment please?" Professor McGonagall requested. Hermione looked rather anxious as she nodded her consent, muttering a quick "_see you at lunch" _ to Harry and Ron. The boys nodded and Harry stalked out, followed by a rather timid Ron.

"Ms. Granger," Professor McGonagall began, drawing Hermione's attention back to her. "I couldn't help but notice that the three of you were rather…taut during class today. Is there any particular reason?"

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. There were so many things she could say. But should she? Harry's cold, angry face popped into her mind. She couldn't betray him like that, could she? Or would it really be "betraying", if it was to help him? Realizing that Professor McGonagall was still waiting for an answer, Hermione made her decision.

"Not really one particular thing, Professor," she began cautiously. "It's just that, with everything that's going on, we're all stressed, especially Harry. Sometimes he deals with it by lashing out. Not usually though," she added hurriedly at the professor's raised eyebrow. She couldn't have the teacher thinking that her best friend was being abusive or anything. And really, it was true. He didn't usually lash out; generally he would draw away from them. "I think that the combination of…well, _everything_ and just getting out of Potions kind of pushed him over the edge. He and Professor Snape don't always see eye-to-eye, so that's more stress." She hesitated, not sure if she should tell the professor what Snape had done when Malfoy made Harry's potion explode, but she figured that that was her friend's fight. Even though the injustice and damage to his grade pained her, he needed to open up to someone about what was happening. So what a better starting topic than getting his least favourite teacher and his rival in trouble? And, she realized, she could tell the teacher enough to get her concerned. Then she would keep a closer eye on Harry.

"Um…Professor," Hermione began, "I know things are hard right now—they are for all of us—but Harry's really getting hit. What with everything that's going on…I'm just really worried about him…"

McGonagall nodded grimly. Inside it hurt to see how much pressure the war and the Ministry's sheer stupidity was putting on her students. "I'll watch him," she promised, in a rare moment of vulnerability in front of a student. Hermione gave a weak smile—it was more a grimace—and raced out.

Minerva sighed as the door swung shut behind one of her favourite pupils. She walked around the desk and sunk down into her chair, staring sadly at a framed wizarding picture.

"I swore to you I would keep him safe," she murmured, eyes glued to the photograph. "And I will. Even if it has to be from himself."

Lily and James Potter simply smiled and waved from their framed memorial, giving no recognition to the knowledge of their only son's pain.

**. . .**

Harry sat under the beech tree by the lakeside—his favourite spot on the grounds. He stared blankly out over the water, vainly trying to ignore the swirling thoughts in his head in a fruitless search for respite. Try as he might, wearing accusations and painful realizations stuck out, bombarding him like rain in a storm.

_Freak_

It was a snide little voice, embodying every person who had hurt him, all of the abuse and pain he had suffered and caused others.

_Worthless_

It spoke truths that no one else dared voice. Everything it said he accepted as fact, for there was no choice. Not for him. The more he resisted, the louder and more confident it became—as a master punishing his disobedient slave, it continuously cracked the whip down on his fragile resolve.

_Loved by none_

It pulled at every weakness, every fear that haunted his near dead eyes and used them to control him—_him_, the supposed savior. Him, the "defeater" of Voldemort. Him, who had survived the Dark Lord four times. Him, who had led Cedric to his death…

_Murderer_

In one swift movement he stood up and punched the innocent tree. Pain exploded in his already injured hand as the knuckles bruised, adding to the preexisting discolouration. Disconnected emotions raged around in the empty void of his chest—pain, anger, fear, helplessness, and grief overcame all logic, though all and none truly belonged to him. A frightened chirping filled his ears. Looking down, he saw that a baby bird had fallen from the tree, most likely due to him.

Tears blurred his vision, but he refused to let them fall. He slid down the tree once more, not knowing what he could do to help the small fledgling.

'_You're useless,'_ the voice interjected. _'Why can't you do anything right? Now yet another innocent will die because of you!'_

Harry drew his knees up to his chest. Rocking back and forth, he muttered to himself—to the voice—repeating over and over "No. I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to."

'_Of course you "_didn't mean to"_,'_ it sneered. '_But it happened because of you. Just like Cedric!'_

"No. No. It wasn't my fault. I didn't mean to," he continued, murmuring almost feverishly. His breaths were coming in harsh and shallow, but the tears still refused to fall. In fact, they were all but dried up now.

'_Guiltless!' _ it crowed. '_You can't even cry. Just like with Cedric, and your parents.'_

"No. No. No. No," he repeated over and over, like a mantra.

'_You're just a little boy,' _ it cooed. '_There's nothing special about you. _They_ don't even care about you! They wanted to be friends with the Boy-Who-Lived, not a failure like you!'_

"No," came the broken whisper. He was shaking badly, still having difficulty breathing.

'_Why don't you just leave them be? They could be so much more without you dragging them down. And they wouldn't come to any harm, either. Not like your parents. Not like Cedric. Not like the bird. Why is it that everyone who comes in contact with you gets hurt? Even Quirrel and Lockhart…'_

"No. NO! IT'S NOT MY FAULT!" he finally screamed. The hysterical yell echoed over the lake, but no one heard. They were all holed up in the Great Hall, enjoying their lunches without a care in the world. He collapsed in on himself, desperate dry sobs heaving his body.

Still no tears came.

A gentle cry came from overhead—a beautiful sound, one that promised redemption and the easing of pain. A comfortable weight alighted on his shoulder, red plumage brushing his face.

"F-Fawkes?" he croaked. The phoenix crooned, a song that expressed the storm inside of him escaping the flawless beak. Fawkes rubbed his head against Harry's cheek in a brief comfort before taking off again. Wonder stirred under the numbness as the phoenix soared over to the bird, scooping it up gently in his talons and returning in safely to the nest.

Fawkes landed in front of him, cocking his head and staring piercingly into the shattered green. A single, pure note came from his beak before he burst into flames, leaving nothing but charred grass behind him.

Well, a little more than blackened foliage. He left a trace of comfort, a grain of hope in the black-haired child.

**. . .**

After lunch, Harry met back up with Ron and Hermione—rather unwillingly. Hermione berated him for missing another meal all the way to Charms, not realizing that this was the last thing her friend wanted or needed. He sat in silence through the class—digging himself back into the deep rut of depression that Fawkes had tried to pull him out of. Phoenix song wasn't permanent, just like happiness.

By the time the trio was trudging down to Herbology, Harry was cold and distant once more. What neither of his friends could know of was the silent "conversation" that was going on inside his head.

'_A _bird_ did what you couldn't! You really are hopeless, aren't you? You might as well just give up—quit so you can stop making things worse—'_

"Potter, are you alright?" Professor Sprout asked gruffly, though a spark of concern lit in her eyes.

"Huh?" he started, voice hoarse. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." The teacher raised an eyebrow.

"Really? Well, you'd do well to note that class started five minutes ago."

Harry flushed while snickers filled the room. "O-Oh. Sorry. J-Just zoned out a little," he muttered, cursing himself for both his inattentiveness and his inability to speak properly. Professor Sprout stared for a moment more before abruptly returning to her lecture.

As usual, Harry worked with Ron and Hermione during the practical segment. Not having paid attention during the lesson he had absolutely no idea what the lumpy-looking flower was supposed to be or what it would do, he subtly paused and let Hermione go first while he watched Neville work next to them. Not that he didn't think that Hermione was competent in Herbology, but Neville _was_ the top of the class…

A strange dizziness came over him and black stars clouded the edges of his vision. Shaking off the feeling and chalking it up to lack of food and sleep, he moved forward so that he could at least _look_ like he was being productive. However, his eyes were drawn to the shadows in the corner of the greenhouse. He blinked, not believing what he saw. His breathing became shallow again.

There, on Hogwarts grounds, with skin deathly pale and eyes cold and unmerciful, stood Cedric Diggory.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: So...there you go. Um...if you also read LtL and have been cursing me for several months, waiting for an update, I promise it's coming. It's in the process of being written, I swear. I get really bored with certain parts and spend part of the time staring at the screen with ideas for when it gets more exciting and don't end up writing anything on it, so I just need to get passed my attention issues. So yeah.

On a more related note, sorry about the cliffhanger. Couldn't resist. MWAHAHAHA! I've been holding on to that one for a while, and it worked in this chapter, so...you'll have to wait until next time!


End file.
